


Dial Up My Number

by LonghornLetters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, abuse of technology, of a sort, technology as a matchmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9124768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonghornLetters/pseuds/LonghornLetters
Summary: Sometimes, it takes a case of mistaken mobile identity in order to push three emotionally reticent men together.  An accidental phone swap allows Sherlock, John, and Greg to finally say what they feel, even if they don't know who can see what they're sending.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an AU thing I saw floating around the Interwebs..."we accidentally swapped phones, and now I want to date you because damn those are some hot selfies"
> 
> So this is one of those things that started off in my head as "oh, this'll be a cute little oneshot." It did not stay that way. First I wanted to make it an OT3, then I wanted some low-key pining...which may have turned in to middle- to high-key pining, I'm not even sure at this point. Add to all that, the more I got into this, the more I realized I needed to show to have it make sense and have any sort of emotional impact. So cute little oneshot it isn't, but I do think it turned into a very sweet how-they-got-together. Which is definitely its own sort of awesome.
> 
> I created the file for this more than a year ago, but I didn't get serious about it until this fall. This would have been an unmitigated disaster without the loving help and cheerleading from Kestrel337. She made me a Johnlockstrade fan in the first place, so it's only logical that she helped me make sense out of the hot mess of a challenge I set for myself.
> 
> Please, I beg of you, take all the technological goings on in here with a grain of salt. It's based in reality in that you can set a lot of smartphones up to do an automatic cloud backup every 24 hours and things like that, but I took some poetic license with the technological capabilities in the name of plot advancement and character development.

John wholeheartedly believed that there were some days when being a doctor just wasn’t worth the hassle.  Today had certainly been one of them.  A late start plus a crush of patients, all with a rather hideous stomach flu, had made his day hectic to begin with, but the thing that sealed the deal was his next-to-last patient of the day.  She’d come in, gotten halfway through describing the same range of symptoms he’d been seeing all day, and then promptly thrown up all over his desk.  Including his phone.  The most horrifying part of the whole ordeal turned out to be the crack in the screen letting some of the liquid into the case and frying the circuitry.  

After a detour on his way home to use the upgrade on his mobile plan added nearly two hours onto his commute home, so that when John finally trudged up the stairs to 221B, his only aim was a hot drink and bed.  John bypassed the door to the sitting room and instead went straight into the kitchen to make a beeline for the kettle.  He refilled it and turned on the heating element, wondering idly where Sherlock was and if he’d be home and interested in dinner.  Sliding open the door between the kitchen and the lounge, John glimpsed Sherlock’s shoes next to the umbrella stand as he dropped his phone onto the end table next to the handset already there, so he figured Sherlock was in the flat somewhere.

“John.”  Sherlock’s surprised and somewhat breathless voice from the sofa startled John out of his thoughts.  He whipped around to see Sherlock sitting sideways on the couch with his legs thrown carelessly over Greg Lestrade’s lap.  His curly hair was even wilder than usual and his lips were bright red and kiss swollen.  

John blinked helplessly, his brain unable to synthesize the image of the two men in front of him into any sort of rational whole.  “Sherlock, uh, Greg…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Greg jumped to his feet like he’d been shot.  “I’d better get going, sunshine.  I’ll call you.”  Greg grabbed his phone off the end table, smacked a quick kiss on Sherlock’s cheek and barrelled off down the stairs.

John stared after Greg’s retreating back until the slam of the street door jolted his attention back to Sherlock.  He pointed at the now empty doorway and asked, “He’s not a rebound shag after Janine, is he?”

Sherlock groaned as he stood.  “What do you take me for?  I may not care much for social graces, but I’m not totally clueless.”  He stepped over to the mirror and adjusted his suit and ruffled his hair back into some semblance of its usual style.  After a quick grimace at his reflection, Sherlock gathered his coat and scarf, “I’m off.  I’m supposed to meet Donovan to sift through some evidence that some imbecile ran through an impact shredder.”

“Oh,” John nodded at the floor and clenched his fist against his leg.  He glanced up and tried to catch Sherlock’s eye in the mirror.  “Um, do you want me to come?”

“No, no,” Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively.  “You’ve had quite a day from the look of things.  I shouldn’t be too late, but don’t wait to eat on my account.”  He flashed John a quick smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes before he turned and disappeared down the stairs.

“Bye.  I guess.”  John muttered to the empty doorway.  He sighed as he turned away from the door to collapse into his chair.  John had come back home to stay almost eight months ago, but he still felt like he and Sherlock, and even Greg, were finding their way around each other again.  He wished they weren’t, but unfortunately, wishing very rarely made anything so.  

With nothing better to do, and no desire to spend the evening moping, he went to his computer to try to finish setting up his iCloud backup.

 

**~~oOo~~**

 

“I will never, ever, let you talk me into digging through mulch again.  Look at this, no phone numbers, no apps, nothing,” Sherlock groused, poking at his new phone.  “This is untenable.”

Greg laughed, “Oh, come on.  It can’t be that bad.  Just sync it when you get home and it’ll all come back.”  Sherlock blinked at him.  Greg gaped.  “You do back your phone up, don’t you?”

When Sherlock’s only response was to shuffle his feet, Greg burst out laughing again, “You don’t do you?  Oh, here.”  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and typed out a quick text. “There, now you’ve got my number at least.  Also, give it,” Greg took the phone out of Sherlock’s hands without waiting for a reply, and started tapping and swiping through menus.  “I’m setting up your cloud on this end so that it’ll automatically back itself up every day."  He held the phone out.  "There, now you can ruin as many phones as you like.”

Sherlock took his mobile back with a smile.  “Thank you.  Dinner?”

“I could eat,” Greg agreed. 

“There’s an Indian place on the way back to Baker Street.  Would that do?” Sherlock offered.  At Greg’s nod, Sherlock slipped his phone into his suit jacket and pulled his coat on, “Let’s go, then.”

At the restaurant, Greg snugged into the same side of the booth next to Sherlock, earning him an eyeroll along with a pleased smirk.  After they ordered, Greg whipped out his phone and snapped a picture of their hands tangled on the table.

“What on earth was that for?” Sherlock asked, though the hint of laughter in his voice masked the irritation he’d clearly been aiming for.

“Looks good.  You.  Me.  Us.”  Greg smiled back unrepentant.

“It does,” Sherlock agreed.  He trailed his long, slender fingers over the back of Greg’s hand, tracing veins and muscles and bones, letting their shared silence settle him from the rush of the case and the frustration of his phone slipping into the impact shredder.  Greg turned his palm up  and Sherlock laced their fingers together and slumped a bit against Greg’s shoulder. 

“Why didn’t John come with you tonight?” Greg asked, jogging Sherlock’s arm where he’d leaned against Greg’s shoulder.

Sherlock shrugged.  “I think he was tired from work.”

“Never stopped him before,” Greg pointed out.

Sherlock shook his head.  “Today was...today was different.  He’d had an exhausting day because of the repetitive diagnoses and demanding, childish behaviour from his patients.  He just wanted a quiet evening.”

“Which catching your flatmate snogging on the couch probably ruined rather spectacularly,” Greg agreed with a small laugh.

“Could have been worse,” Sherlock protested, chuckling softly himself.

“How?” Greg asked incredulously.

“We could have been shagging,” Sherlock answered simply.

Greg burst into a full on laughter at that, and after a moment, Sherlock joined in.  “That would have definitely ruined his plans for a quiet evening in.”

“Do you ever still think about what I asked you?  About him?  With us, I mean,” Greg asked after he’d calmed down.  

Sherlock slanted a sharp look in his direction.  “Yes.  But it doesn’t matter,” Sherlock shook his head.  “He’s not...like that.”  

“That’s not true.  I know you love him.  And, he loves you, you know…” Greg trailed away; the hesitant offer to bow out if John showed interest in only Sherlock remaining unsaid.

“As a friend,” Sherlock repeated the well-worn mantra.  “Anyway, it’s not important.  I’ve got you.  You’ve got me.  John’s got us both as friends.  His heterosexual reputation can remain untarnished.  It’s all for the best, I’m sure.”

Greg leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s temple. “Don’t,” he murmured against Sherlock’s skin, “Self-sacrificing martyr doesn’t suit you.”

“Haven’t you heard,” Sherlock groused, “It’s the only thing that does.”

“Hush, or I’ll take more artsy pictures of our hands.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock asked, smiling.

“Of course,” Greg swiped his camera to burst and snapped a quick barrage of pictures as Sherlock dissolved into laughter.

 

**~~oOo~~**

 

“John?” Sherlock’s shout preceded him into the flat.  “John, I need your number.”

“You what?” John muted the telly to give Sherlock his full attention.  “Why?  I thought you already had my number.”

“Not anymore,” Sherlock hung up his coat and waved what looked like a brand new iPhone in John’s direction.  “You can thank Sergeant Donovan for this.  She’s the reason my old one is in pieces, sim card and all.”

“It shouldn’t be that big a loss.  Can’t you just use your last backup to format this new one?” John asked.  

Sherlock scowled, “Have you been talking to Lestrade?”

“I...no...why?” John stuttered before it dawned on him.  “You don’t back your phone up, do you?”

His scowl darkened.  “It doesn’t matter now.  Your number?”

“You don’t!” John howled with laughter.  “All that cleverness and you can’t protect the one thing they’ll have to pry from your cold, dead fingers.  Does Greg know about this?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock snarled.  “If I’d wanted this sort of abuse I’d have gone home with Lestrade.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” John gasped, struggling to regain his composure.  “Here, I’ll just text you.  Your number didn’t change, did it?”

“No,” Sherlock pouted.  His phone dinged softly in his hand.  “Thank you.  Now, if you’re quite finished having fun at my expense, I’m going to bed.”

“I’d sync that thing if I were you.  Don’t want to lose the only two contacts you’ve got,” John called after Sherlock.  All he got was a raspberry and a two-fingered salute in response.

John flopped back down on the sofa with the intent of finishing the episode of Kitchen Nightmares he’d been watching, but a quiet ping from his computer dragged him back up and to the desk.  A little dialogue box on the screen let him know that his daily backup had finished.  John frowned at the screen.  He hadn’t really had any interest in fussing with his new phone, so he wasn’t sure what there was to backup yet.  Curious, he opened his iCloud and clicked into the file.  It held apps for Barclays and ESPN as well as a few dozen new pictures in the photo folder.  John opened the full size of the first thumbnail to see Sherlock’s slender fingers wrapped around Greg’s sturdier hand.  He closed out of it and clicked on the sub-folder labelled “Burst.”  The smile that developed on Sherlock’s face in the series of pictures conjured an image of the gentle teasing it would take to coax that smile out in the first place.  A shared intimacy that spoke of long familiarity and trust.

John sighed and pressed his hands against his eyes in an attempt to block out the image of Sherlock so happy without him.  He had no right to begrudge Sherlock and Greg any happiness, especially not with each other, but such physical demonstrations of their attachment stirred a prickle of jealousy at the base of his skull.  When he reopened his eyes, Sherlock’s smiling face still regarded him from the computer monitor.  What, he wondered, would it take for him to be able to win that sort of a reaction from Sherlock, or from Greg, for that matter.  From behind his closed eyes, he let himself picture sitting with them, leaning together to share a joke or just the closeness of two other people. The soft click of Sherlock’s bedroom door closing for the night startled John and shattered his momentary fantasy.  John’s eyes flew open and he slammed the lid of his laptop closed on the image of Sherlock’s smile and retreated to his room.  

A few minutes later as he changed for bed, John silently pondered his situation.  Pining over one person was one thing, but over  _ two _ ...no, something was clearly wrong with him.  That wasn’t the way the world worked.  Monogamy.  That was the right way, the sensible way, to go about things.  For God’s sake, he wasn’t a teenager anymore.  The time when it was socially acceptable for him to have eyes for more than one person at a time was well behind him.  He flopped back on the bed with a groan.  No one deserved to have their relationship mucked up by some third wheel, and John had absolutely no desire to become a homewrecker.  No, this was clearly just an immature pipe dream, and John would have to get over it because there was no way he would let it ruin his friendship with the two best people he knew.

 

**~~oOo~~**

 

Much earlier than he wanted, Greg’s alarm pulled him out of a deep, dreamless sleep.  A quick glance at his calendar reminded him that today would be an ordeal.  He had a press conference first thing, which meant nosy questions posed in unctuous tones before he could even get his head on straight and then a passive aggressive email from the chief superintendent about how he thought things  _ should _ have gone, no matter how smoothly Greg thought he'd handled things in the pressroom.  

Dragging himself out of the shower and over to the closet, Greg consoled himself with the fact that at least it was Friday.  Pants, socks, trousers, shoes, shirt, all went on by rote, but his hands stopped when he went to reach for a tie.  Nested in the middle of the familiar selection of blues and blacks and greys was something new.  He trailed his fingers over the smooth navy silk decorated with a delicate emerald fan print, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the beetle-shaped tie-pin holding a note in place against the fabric.

_ Your straightforward honesty and loyalty are your finest features, but looking smart can’t hurt either.  --SH _

Greg snatched his phone off the bedside table and snapped a quick picture before he pulled his new tie off the rack and twisted it into a half-windsor.  He grabbed his jacket and hustled out the door, feeling more ready for this press conference than he had when he’d woken.  

Once he hit the office, Greg didn’t have time to think about anything except work until he paused for breath around one.  Never, he thought as he collapsed into his desk chair, let it be said that a day of desk duty was easy.  A quick check of his work email revealed the chief super wasn’t yet irate enough about his statements to the press to have sent any tersely worded emails, so a bit of lunch wouldn’t go amiss.

A few bites into his sandwich, and Greg finally felt his shoulders start to uncoil from his hectic morning.  He pushed his phone in idle circles while he chewed and let his mind drift back to his conversation with Sherlock from last night.  Sherlock’s insistence that they would only ever have John as a friend simply didn’t make sense to him.  He’d seen the way John looked at Sherlock.  Hell, he’d seen the way John looked at him.  Looks that whispered of longing and love.  He also wasn’t surprised neither John nor Sherlock had noticed.  Sherlock seemed so sure John didn’t harbor any feelings beyond the platonic for either of them, and John seemed so desperate to convince himself that loving two men was wrong that they’d both looked right past each other.  

Well, if observation and deduction on one side and steadfast avoidance on the other had gotten them nowhere, then he might as well try actually initiating a conversation like a real adult.  Since he already knew his own mind on the situation and had a pretty fair idea of Sherlock’s, a bit of a chat to test the waters with John seemed to be the best, most logical, next step.  Now that he had a plan, however tentative, Greg tapped into his text window so he could pester Sherlock and, hopefully broach the subject of talking to John about their feelings. 

_ Everybody’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man :) _

When Sherlock didn’t immediately reply, Greg tossed the refuse from his lunch and started answering press enquiries from the outlets who hadn’t made it to the conference that morning and follow-up emails from the ones who had.  He was eyes deep in answering a follow-up question from The Daily Mail when Donovan put her head round the door.

“Boss, why aren’t you answering your phone?  I’ve got an overtime request that needs signing and I haven’t been able to get hold of you all day.”

Greg blinked at her then looked down at his phone where the lock screen showed no notifications and shook his head. “I’ve got no messages.”

“You must do,” she insisted, “I’ve sent you six, easy.”  She snatched his phone off his desk.  “Your passcode’s still the same, right?”  When Greg nodded, she typed it in then started navigating into his texts.  “What the hell?  I know I’ve sent them.”  She slammed his handset down on the desk and snapped, “this is ridiculous; I know I texted you.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t,” Greg placated, “I just didn’t get them.  Look, I’m here right now, and I’m not, God willing, extremely busy, so we can sort it now.”

“Fine.”  Sergeant Donovan nodded.  “I’ll go get it.  Don’t you bloody move.”

While he waited, Greg opened his texts and fired off a quick message:

_ Text me back when you get this, I think something’s funny with my phone. _

He waited barely thirty seconds before his phone vibrated with an incoming text:

_ I’m withholding judgment on your fashion sense until I see evidence of its existence.  Also, your phone appears to be fully functional.  SH _

Greg rolled his eyes and snapped a quick picture of himself smirking into his camera and showing off the fact that he’d worn the tie Sherlock had snuck into his flat.  He’d barely set his phone back on the desk when the reply pinged:

_ Quite right...everyone is crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.  I knew that colour would suit you.  You’re welcome.  SH _

Greg rolled his eyes.

_ Thanks, berk.  Made my day, though, and no mistake. _

“Here, boss,” Sally said, bursting back into his office.  “Overtime request for the Leggit case.”

“Right,” Greg nodded as he flipped through the paperwork.  “This looks fine.”  He scribbled his signature at the bottom of the request.  “Thank you, Donovan.”

“Thanks.”  Sally smiled and took her papers back.  “You might want to get that phone looked at, though.  It’s just missed texts now, but what it going to be when we’re out in the middle of a call?”

Greg flapped a dismissive hand at her, “I know, I know...” He trailed off, frowning down at the screen.  “D’you know what?  I think you might be right.  Some of my contacts are missing and there’s people in here I’ve never heard of.   _ You’re _ not even in here.”  

Sally snatched his phone again.  “I’ll add myself.”  She leaned against his desk while she typed then passed it back.  “There, now you’ve got no excuse to ignore me.”

Greg smiled.  “Let me send you a text, just to make sure it’s all working again.  Something must have glitched when I upgraded Wednesday.”

Sally shrugged, “Maybe.  Technology’s turning everyone soft, if you ask me.”   She stood, flipped quickly through her papers then flicked them in a mock salute at him.  “Thanks for this, but I’d better get back to it.”

Greg sighed into the silence Sally left in her wake.  He swallowed the last of his water and dialed, steeling himself to explain to Sherlock why a heart-to-heart with John about the nature of love was a good idea.

“Hello?” Sherlock answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Sherlock, it’s me,” Greg said.

“I know,” Sherlock’s brisk professional tone was still his default when Greg called, “Have you got something for me?”

“I’m afraid not.  I wanted to ask you about something else.” He grimaced at how conciliatory he sounded.  He sucked in a deep breath and plunged in.  “I wanted to ask you about John.”

Sherlock’s silence on the other end of the line was deafening, so Greg forged ahead desperate to fill the void, “I think we should talk to John about the way we feel.  I mean--”

“Why?”  Sherlock’s question cut Greg off before he could start rambling.

“I think he’d be open to us,” Greg answered.  “He seems like he cares for both of us.  I know we love him.”

“Ah, but you forget, detective inspector,” Sherlock retorted, “John values the perception of normalcy over almost anything.”

Greg closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.  “What the hell is normal anymore?  Why can’t we make our own normal?”

“Normal may have been a poor choice of words,” Sherlock conceded.  “John values  _ convention _ , or at least the appearance of it.”

“Can we at least talk to him?” Greg asked.  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained and all.”

Sherlock sighed, “I suppose.  I...I don’t want to be there, though.”  He took a shaky breath before continuing, “I’ve only just got John back.  I don’t think I could stand to drive him away again so soon.”

Greg shut his eyes against the hurt in Sherlock’s voice.  He should have realized.  “I don’t think he would just  _ leave _ , sunshine.  Even if he really doesn’t feel the same way, I’m sure we could find a way to stay friends.”

“If you’re sure,” Sherlock conceded, the note of reluctance still strong in his voice.

“I just don’t think we should write off any chance because we were too afraid even to try.”

 

**~~oOo~~**

 

John’s half days at the clinic were his favourites by a long shot.  He got off work in time to run errands or to get chores finished and still usually had time to read or write for a bit.  Today, after three loads of laundry, he’d just settled down with his novel when a knock came.  

In no mood to get up now that he’d just gotten comfortable, John threw his head back against the headrest, “Mrs. H!” he hollered.  A minute of silence, “Mrs. Hudson!” Still nothing.  “Oh fine, I’ll go, I guess,” he muttered to himself.  

John got up with a groan and stomped down the stairs and wrenched the door open only to pull up short.  “Greg, uh, hi.”  He stepped back, trying to recover his mental footing.  “Sherlock’s not in, but you can come up and wait if you want,” he offered, gesturing behind himself to the stairs to the flat.

Greg smiled, “Thanks.  I hate to burst in on your half day and all, but this shouldn’t take that long.”

“Come on in, then,” John said and stepped aside from the door so that Greg could squeeze past.  

John followed him up to the sitting room, watching as Greg glanced around their untidy sitting room.  “Look,” he started, “I don’t think Sherlock’s nicked any evidence or that he’s got hold of anything else...uh...illegal.”

Greg shed his coat then settled on the sofa.  “No, I don’t think he does,” he agreed, “He’s been a lot better about withholding on his end since he’s finally figured out I can withhold on my end too.”

John blushed.  “I...ah…”

Greg burst out laughing.  “No, no,” he gasped, “I meant crime scene access.”

“Oh,” John smiled halfheartedly, “I didn’t think of that.”

“Nevermind,” Greg dismissed without heat.  “I...uh...look, why don’t you come have a seat?  It’ll be a bit easier to talk to you without you hovering in the doorway.”

John nodded and moved to perch himself just on the edge of the sofa.  “So,” John cleared his throat.  “What was it you wanted?” he refused to meet Greg’s eye, opting instead to scrutinize his fingers where they lay interlaced in his lap.

“Well,” Greg hedged, “I’m not sure where to begin, now that I’m here.”  He smiled ruefully and ran a hand through his hair.

John cast him a sidelong glance, “The beginning usually works best for the clients.”

Greg laughed.  “That’s true enough.  Okay, so, beginning.  I guess you know Sherlock and I are together.  Have been since around when he was, you know, in hospital.  We had a lot of time to talk.  About more than just work for once.  It was nice.”  John nodded to show he was listening, but his insides felt hollow.  Christ.  

The memory of walking Greg to Sherlock’s room and talking about whether or not a nurse would chuck Greg out on his ear for filming Sherlock’s morphine-induced haze still felt fresh.  Now when he replayed that harried walk through the corridors, he could see the ill-concealed panic that had melted into sharp relief when Greg saw Sherlock was alive.  He came again several times to sit with Sherlock; he’d always said it was just to talk or to run a few facts about a case past him.  But no matter what Greg  _ said  _ he was there for, John had eyes.  

Every time Greg had come to visit, he would stalk into Sherlock’s room looking worried that he’d done a runner again.  As soon as he saw Sherlock propped up in the bed, his whole face would melt into a relieved smile.  The relief wasn’t one-sided, though.  Sherlock was noticeably more relaxed when Greg came to visit.  He would even use his morphine drip instead of just suffering through the pain in clenched silence.  It all made sense now.  Not that sense was any sort of comfort.

“Anyway,” Greg said, snapping John out of his thoughts.  “We, um, we talked about you too.”  Now Greg could not meet John’s eye.  “About loving you.”

John jumped in spite of himself and looked up.  “What?  What does that even mean?”

Greg blushed.  “Well, just that, really.  I know we’ve been friends for a while now, and I wanted you to know that we do.  Love you.”

John could feel his mouth hanging open as he stared at Greg.  “But...how?”

“How do these things ever happen?” Greg asked with a rueful laugh.  “I think we were friends and it just...deepened.”

“That’s not how it’s done, though,” John objected, “You can’t just...just...no.  You can’t just love two people  like that.”

“Why not?” Greg asked, “Look, I know it’s not  _ usual _ , but it--polyamory--is  _ possible _ .”  

“Poly-what?” John shook his head, “Three people isn’t a relationship.  It’s cheating.”

Greg smirked at John, “Not necessarily.  Trust me, I should know.”  His eyes softened and he took a deep breath, “If...if we all three care about each other, and we all three wanted it and worked for it, why shouldn’t we be able to all three be with each other?”

“Because being in a relationship is bloody hard enough with one person,” John responded.

“That’s a bullshit excuse and you know it, John,” Greg retorted sharply.  “Try again.”

John could not meet his eye when he spoke again, “Because I see how much you and Sherlock care about each other and I know how much I care about you and Sherlock and I’m jealous.”

Greg’s hand was warm on his shoulder and he spoke gently, “That just means you’re human, mate.”  He shifted closer.  “Jealousy’s something we’d work through.  All three of us.  A polyamorous relationship doesn’t magically erase the hard things, but it can multiply the good things.

“Look.”  Greg took a breath.  “I don’t expect you to decide anything right away, and I certainly don’t want you to feel like I told you any of this to pressure you.”  He raised his eyes to meet John’s and smiled.  “Can I...can I answer anything for you?”

John laughed, unsure where even to start.  “Have you talked to Sherlock about this?  I didn’t think relationships were his scene, and now you’re telling me he wants  _ two _ ?”

“I have.” Greg nodded.  “That is to say, he and I have discussed talking to you.”  He glanced over, but John just raised his eyebrows in response.

“And?” John prompted, suspicious Greg had edited his last response.  “What did he have to say about this?”

Greg shrugged diffidently.  “He’s curious, certainly.  Has been for a while, if I’m honest, but he’s afraid to lose your friendship too.  Besides, it would hardly be fair if we both showed up to press gang you at once.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, “That would feel a little coercive.  Look, Greg, I hope you won’t think I’m being rude or anything, but, um, I don’t think I could give you any kind of an answer right now.”

“No, no, of course not.”  Greg shook his head.  “I can bugger off, if you’d rather?”

John nodded.  “I think that might be good.  Give me some time to wrap my head around everything.”  He glanced at Greg.  “Christ, that was a bit rude.  I’m sorry.”

With a smile, Greg stood to go.  “Don’t be sorry.  I’ll just be on my way, then.  Think it over.  If you want to talk to Sherlock or me about anything, just call.”  He waved then disappeared down the stairs.

John rose too in a hollow attempt at the manners he knew he should show, but all he could do was blink after Greg’s retreating footsteps.  Once the street door slammed behind him, John started towards the sitting room door, then changed his mind and retreated to his chair, shaking his head at himself.  Why, he wondered, would Greg be the one to come to him?  Surely Sherlock could have talked to him about this; they were supposedly best friends after all.  

John closed his eyes and forced himself to acknowledge that he owed both Greg and Sherlock the courtesy of seriously considering this.  His trouble, he realized, wasn’t a lack of feeling for either of them; rather, his problem was not knowing any of the rules for how something like this worked.  How could three people, even with the best of intentions, love each other without it all falling apart. 

 

**~~oOo~~**

 

Back at his own flat, Greg changed into his pyjamas and flipped over to Mastermind; determined not to pick his earlier conversation with John to pieces.  His resolve shattered when his phone pinged with an incoming text:

_ Did you talk to him? SH _

Greg rolled his eyes as he typed a reply:

_ Yes.  Is this you asking me how it went? _

He turned back to the telly, groaning that the girl sitting in the chair had picked the lifecycle and habits of the honeybee for her specialised category.

_ Not to change the subject, but the girl on Mastermind right now would be right up your street. _

Sherlock responded two questions into the round:

_ I would like to know what happened, but I don’t want John to feel like I’m subjecting him to interrogation.  SH _

A second text pinged in almost immediately:

_ She’s neither you nor John, so I doubt she’s as “up my street” as you think.  SH _

Greg laughed out loud at Sherlock’s attempt to hide his nerves behind a rather transparent sarcastic retort.  He grinned at the screen as he typed a new message:

_ Not like that, you silly sod.  She’s got bees as her special category.  And yeah, I think it went well. _

He stared at his phone a moment in contemplation before he sent a quick follow-up:

_ Well as it could, anyway.  Is John okay? _

When Sherlock didn’t answer immediately, Greg put down his phone and flipped away from the news program that had replaced Mastermind to some World War I show that looked about half over.  It seemed decent enough, so he kicked his feet up onto the sofa and sank back against the cushions.  Greg could feel the tension of the day catching up with him as his eyes started sliding closed, but he snapped back awake when his phone dinged where it was lying on his chest.

_ He seems as stable as someone who’s just been invited into a polyamorous relationship can be.  Thank you.  SH _

He blinked at the screen for a few seconds before he could rally his brain into forming a response.

_ For what? _

The ellipsis indicating Sherlock’s typing popped up almost immediately, but they took nearly two full minutes to resolve into words.  

_ I’m quite certain John appreciated your sincerity today.  I know I do.  SH _

Greg chuckled and rolled his eyes as he tapped out a new message:

_ Not sure how much good it did.  He chucked me out pretty quick after I’d said my piece. _

He set his phone on the coffee table and sighed.  If his insistence on broaching the subject of polyamory with John made things difficult for Sherlock, he didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself.  There was a vast difference between desiring something from a distance and actually attempting to reach for it.  Sherlock had tried to make that clear, but he hadn’t wanted to listen.  He hoped they’d be able to find a way forward as friends if it turned out that he’d misinterpreted John’s interest and he didn’t want a romantic relationship with them.  He knew how much Sherlock valued John’s friendship, so he started to turning over whether he could at least help Sherlock salvage his relationship with John.  Before he could spiral into an actual panic, his phone pinged softly with another incoming text.

_ John needs space when he’s got to think about something important.  He doesn’t like to feel rushed.  SH _

Greg gaped at his screen as his fingers moved across the keys through muscle memory:

_ Since when are you so considerate? _

Greg dropped his phone onto his chest and turned his attention back to his show, grimacing at the hideous wound irrigation the two onscreen doctors were arguing about.  He sighed.  Teasing aside, Sherlock did make a valid point.  John never wanted anyone to rush him into a decision, but Sherlock being the one to notice was something else entirely.  

When Greg’s show ended twenty minutes later with still no word from Sherlock, he rose and clicked the telly off for the night.  Their conversation hadn’t felt finished, but Greg couldn’t fathom why Sherlock had just quit responding.  Changed for bed, Greg curled under the covers and typed out a message to try to draw Sherlock out:

_ You still awake, sunshine? _

His screen dimmed and almost timed out before the ellipsis indicating Sherlock’s response relit the backlight.

_ I’m awake.  Did you need something?  SH _

Greg groaned; he could feel the chill in Sherlock’s tone from across town.

_ You do realize I was just teasing, right?  You’re doing the right thing letting him be.  He’ll talk to us when he’s ready.  _

Sherlock’s response pinged in quicker this time:

_ Intellectually?  I understand.  Intuitively?  It can be difficult.  SH _

Greg snuggled himself down into the bed and thought a moment before he typed out his reply:

_ I know, and as hard as it is, we may BOTH need to step back.  If it’s easier, you can come stay with me until he’s ready to talk. _

He plugged in his phone and was almost fully asleep when his phone chimed one more time:

_ I’d rather not; I don’t want John to think we’re avoiding him.  Perception can skew opinion, you know.  Let’s leave this here for tonight.  You’re tired and I’m a bit unsettled.  Goodnight, Geoff.  SH _

Greg chuckled softly.

_ Goodnight, sunshine, see you tomorrow. _

 

**~~oOo~~**

 

John woke early after a fitful night’s sleep, and after rolling over a few times in a last-ditch effort to go back to sleep, finally gave it up as a bad job and thrashed his way out of the tangled blankets.  He sat on the edge of the bed and scrubbed his hands through his hair, trying to shuffle his scattered thoughts into some sort of order.  After he’d unceremoniously kicked Greg out of their flat yesterday, he had spent the rest of the evening thinking about their conversation, and Sherlock, in one of his rare fits of empathy, hadn't even mentioned Greg's visit, even though he must have known about it. Instead, he had come home and taken one hard look at John then retreated to his bedroom for the night, leaving John in peace. 

He trundled downstairs to find Sherlock leaning against the desk in the sitting room texting rapidly and talking to Mrs. Hudson while she puttered around tidying their kitchen.  “I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone,” he was saying, “These things are normally two hours of actual effort then at least another two of alcohol-lubricated socialisation.  I probably won’t be home until sometime in the afternoon at least, unfortunately.”

John drew up short, staring at Sherlock’s clothes, “Are you wearing jeans?”

“Don’t they make him look handsome,” Mrs. Hudson tittered as she poked her head round the kitchen door with a grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I have worn them before,” he groused.  He pocketed his phone and smiled at them both.  “I suppose I should be going.”  He drew on his coat then, with a brief nod to John and an even briefer hug for Mrs. Hudson, descended the stairs.

John turned back to Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock’s footsteps faded down the stairs.  “Where’s he off to, then?”

“That detective inspector of his is taking him out,” Mrs. Hudson giggled.

“Oh,” John nodded as his gut clenched.  He shouldn’t feel so jealous; he had been the one who pushed Greg and his offer out to arm’s length after all.  

“John?” Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen and placed a gentle hand on his arm, “Are you alright, dear?”

John nodded stiffly.  “Yeah.  Well, I think so, anyway.”

She perched on his chair and stared at him, clearly not believing his assurance.  “Is it about Sherlock?”

John laughed mirthlessly.  “When is it not about Sherlock?”  He dropped into his chair at the desk and powered up his laptop.  He absolutely did not want to discuss the complications of his personal life with his landlady; especially since he wasn’t even sure  _ he _ understood the complications of his personal life.  He drummed his fingers against the desk and scowled at the Windows logo fluttering across the startup screen.

Mrs. Hudson slipped into the sitting room and perched herself on the edge of Sherlock’s chair.  She regarded him silently for a few moments then sighed.  “Oh, John, what’s wrong?”

John shook his head.  “It’s nothing.”  He glanced over at Mrs. Hudson out of the corner of his eye, but she just gazed steadily back at him, waiting.  “Well, it  _ is _ something,” he waved his hand dismissively, “but it’s...complicated.”

“John,” she scolded without real heat.  “Very little shocks me anymore.”  When he continued to stare mulishly at the keyboard of his laptop, she reached out and gently put her hand on his wrist.  “I’ll tell you something I’ve learned in my years: if there’s something you want, don’t spend too much time fretting over appearances.”

John blinked slowly, still staring straight ahead.  “ I...I don’t…” he trailed off, unsure how to even finish his sentence.  “That’s just it,” he tried again, “I’m not even sure what I want.”

Mrs. Hudson patted his arm.  “Oh, I think you know,” she said with a small smile.  “I just think you’re just afraid to go out and get them.”  John whipped his head around to stare at Mrs. Hudson, but she just smiled and stood to go back to her own flat.  “I’ll leave you to it, then, dear.”  She turned at the door and poked her head back into the room.  “Just remember, love can look all sorts of different ways and still be true.”  John smiled weakly at her and nodded then turned back to his laptop.  

He sighed resignedly as he stared at his to-do list; his personal banking, writing their shared bills, and catch-up charting all before he could even start mucking about with writing up Sherlock’s most recent case or thinking about how to approach the politely worded email he'd received from a publisher last week asking if he'd ever thought about trying to reach a wider audience with his stories.  Watching his computer struggle to start all the programs that opened on login further frayed his temper.  

“Why does this always take so fucking long?” he groaned, scowling at the spinning ring next to his cursor.

The last thing to open automatically was his iTunes, and when it finally loaded, a dialogue box popped up informing him his backup had completed right on schedule last night.

“What backup?” he muttered, clicking on the box.  Sherlock’s flustered reappearance last night coupled with his awkward conversation with Greg earlier in the afternoon meant he had barely had time to breathe, much less take any time to actually set his phone up the way he liked.  He opened the backup to see what Apple thought he’d been up to this time, and a handful of photos and a barrage of texts appeared onscreen.  

“What the hell is this?”  He clicked on the text thread labelled “Sherlock,” and gaped at the conversation that came up.  John had read fewer than half a dozen of the messages before he realized this wasn’t actually an exchange between Sherlock and him, but rather a conversation between Sherlock and Greg.  What was more, they were clearly discussing the aftermath of Greg’s visit.

“Why is my computer backing up his phone?” John asked the empty room, sitting back from the desk and rubbing his eyes.  He shook his head; a bloody medical degree and modern technology still sometimes eluded him.  “Phone’s too smart for its own good,” he muttered as he dialed Sherlock’s number.

Two rings, and he heard the soft click of the call connecting, “Hello?” Sherlock’s voice was muffled by a gust of wind.

“Oh, um, I didn’t think you’d answer,” John blurted, then immediately cursed himself.  One conversation shouldn’t make him so awkward around his dearest friend.

“John, are you alright?  Do you need something?”  An edge of concern crept into Sherlock’s voice.  

“No, I’m fine, but I…” he trailed off as a cheer erupted on Sherlock’s end then faded into a rather boisterous chorus of “Arsenal Till I Die.”  “Where are you?  Arsenal Terminal?”

“What?  No.  I’m in a park.  In the rain.  Watching grown men charge about as if they were Theo bloody Walcott.” 

"How do  _ you  _ know who Theo Walcott is?  I thought you didn't have space for 'all kinds of useless trivia.'"

A sigh.  “Did you actually  _ need _ something or were you just calling to  _ chat _ ?”

“Oh, right, yeah.  When you get home, d’you think you could take a look at my phone?  My automatic back-up’s doing something weird.”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock’s voice sounded noticeably cooler.  “Is asking the person too clueless to back up his own phone really the best idea?”

John groaned.  “I said I was sorry about that.”  He softened his tone. “Would you just take a look at it?  This kind of thing comes more naturally to you.”

“I’ll look at it when I get home.”  Sherlock paused, seemed to consider, then blurted, “You could come meet us, if you like.”

John shook his head.  “I don’t want to gate crash your date.  Plus, I’ve got a bunch of stuff to take care of here.”  He minimized his iTunes and pulled up his bank statement.  “I think the problem’s with the way my phone’s connecting to my laptop.  It can wait.”

“Yes, right, of course.”  Sherlock’s voice became detached once more.  “I’ll take a look at your phone when I get home.” 

The soft click of the call disconnecting sounded in John’s ear.  He rolled his eyes as he dropped his phone on the desk, “Oh, yes, come and be social, John, we’d love to have you.” he pecked out his bank login, shaking his head at the keyboard.  “No, no, don’t invite me out with both of you because I’d rather sit at home and pine like a complete prat.”  

John turned back to his to-do list, but his heart was no longer in it; all he could think about was ditching his responsibilities and going to sit in the park in the drizzle with Sherlock and watching Greg play football.

 

**~~oOo~~**

 

At the final whistle, Greg trotted over to the sideline and wrapped Sherlock up in a sweaty bear hug.  “Third goal this season,” he crowed, leaning into Sherlock’s congratulatory kiss. “Aren’t you proud?”

Sherlock pulled back and grimaced.  “Why would I be?  I had absolutely nothing to do with any of them.”

“You can be such a bastard sometimes, you know?”  Greg retorted with a laugh, refusing to let Sherlock’s cynicism dampen his spirits.

Sherlock smirked.  “And yet you continue to drag me to these things.”

“You’re my good luck charm, sunshine.”  Greg wrapped his arm around Sherlock again, “Take a selfie with me.”  When Sherlock hesitated, Greg sighed, “Oh, come on.  I scored the game-winning goal.”

“Oh, fine, if you insist.”  Sherlock’s smile gave the lie to his grousing, though.  

Greg pulled him in close and clicked a picture of the two of them smiling at the camera, and before Sherlock could pull away, he snapped another picture of him planting a smacking kiss on Sherlock’s cheek as he smiled.

“Gorgeous,” Greg smirked, flipping back through his two new pictures.  “I know it’s not usually your thing, but d’you want to go to the pub?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “I don’t think so.  I’ve got some experiments that are about to enter data collection stages and John asked me to look at his phone.”

Greg’s head popped through the neck of his pullover, his nose wrinkled in confusion.  “Why would you need to look at his phone?  I thought he just got a new one.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “I’m not sure.  He said something about his backup not working properly.  Too soon to speculate.”

“I thought that was the point of an upgrade,” Greg replied, bending to unlace his football boots.  He squinted up at Sherlock.  “It would actually work the way it’s supposed to.”

Another shrug.  “I would have thought so too, but apparently not.”

Greg straightened from changing his shoes.  “I get it, though.  My new phone’s been weird too.  I wasn’t getting Sally’s texts yesterday, and when we looked at it, she wasn’t even in my contacts.”

Sherlock stood and wrapped his coat around himself.  “I should get going.  I did have a good time.”  He leaned in and pecked a quick kiss onto Greg’s lips.  “Call me if anything interesting comes up.”

Greg grabbed his wrist, “Hey, no, you’re not going to rush off without so much as a by-your-leave.  I expect a proper snog if you’re not going to grace us with your presence at the pub.” 

Sherlock turned back, a note of petulance creeping into his reply.  “You know how those obnoxious displays of affection make me feel.”

Greg could feel Sherlock’s attention splintering, so instead of forcing the issue, he allowed Sherlock his out.  “You may have mentioned it once or twice.” Greg smiled and shook his head fondly.  “Go on then, get going.  Text me if you figure out what’s wrong with John’s phone because I may need you to take a look at mine if I can’t figure out why it’s being peculiar.”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock snapped, buttoning up his coat and digging his hands into his pockets.  “I’m not your bloody tech support.”

Greg squeezed Sherlock into a one-armed hug.  “Not even if I pay you in cold cases and tickets to that Paganini retrospective that’s coming up?”

Sherlock smiled down at the grass.  “I think I could be persuaded.”  He shot Greg a glance out of the corner of his eye.  “I’ll have to let you know, though.”

“Oh, fine, play hard to get,” Greg grumbled, smirking back.  “Text me if you need anything, yeah?”

“Certainly, Graham,” Sherlock replied, drawing himself up in preparation to leave.

Greg barked out a laugh and shoved Sherlock’s shoulder.  “It’s Greg and you damn well know it.”

Sherlock tugged his gloves on, looking thoughtful.  “Know?  Yes.  Care?  I’m not so sure.”

Greg grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and drew him in until they were barely a breath apart, “You better watch yourself, sunshine.  I can withhold more than just cases, you know.”

Sherlock blinked at Greg, momentarily lost for words.  “I’ll…” he cleared his throat and tried again.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Greg pulled him the rest of the way in and kissed him slowly with just a hint of tongue and an edge of teeth.  “You’d better,” he murmured after they parted.  He let go of Sherlock’s lapels and smoothed them down, erasing the creases left behind from his grip.  He gave Sherlock a gentle push to get him moving as he spoke, “Off you go, then.”  

Sherlock nodded, backed away, then finally turned to head towards the road.  

Greg looked after him until Paul Dimmock came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, “You still coming to The Packet with us or what?”

Greg jumped, “Oh, uh, yeah.  I guess so.”  He bent to shove his boots into his bag and stood, only to be met with Dimmock studying his face like it was a fresh crime scene.  “What?”

“Are you okay?”  He asked as Greg slung his bag over his shoulder, “You look kind of...off.”

“I’m fine,” Greg muttered, “Are we going or what?”

“Yeah, of course.  Lead on,” he said, falling into step with Greg as they headed for the park entrance.  They lapsed into companionable silence as they walked, but Greg could feel the way Dimmock’s eyes kept darting to his face, sneaking glances when he thought Greg wasn’t looking.

Dimmock continued to scrutinize him as they turned down the road towards their usual post-game locale, “You sure you’re okay?  Sherlock’s not making you too crazy is he?”

“Yeah, no, he’s fine.” Greg trailed off then tried again, “I’m...I think I’m okay.”

“You sound sure.”  He smirked and bumped Greg’s shoulder.  A pause, then he continued in a more serious tone, “Well, if you need someone to talk to, you know I’m no gossip.”  When Greg hesitated, Paul shrugged.  “Sometimes a neutral third party’s a good thing.”

They pushed through the front door and into the pub, and after a quick look around, went to drop their bags at the table most of the team had already claimed.  “First round’s on me,” Dimmock offered.  When Greg tried to demur he insisted.  “Come on, let me treat the game winning scorer.”

Once they’d made it to the bar and ordered, Greg plucked up his courage while they waited for their drinks.  “There, um, there is something, actually,” he mumbled, leaning back against the bar and scrubbing his hand through his hair.

Dimmock nodded down at the coaster he was twirling between his fingers, “I figured.”  He glanced up, “So, anything in particular?  Or just Sherlock being his usual charming self.”

Greg laughed hollowly, “It’s not him...it’s...it’s me.”

“Are you sure?” Dimmock asked, raising an eyebrow.  “I mean, I have  _ met _ Sherlock.”

Greg rolled his eyes and nodded.  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Well,” Paul drew the word out, thinking.  “It can’t be that bad, I mean, he came to the game today, so he must not be too angry.”

Greg swiped Dimmock’s coaster and set it spinning on the bar.  “I don’t know,” he muttered, watching it turn.  “I think...I think I may have cajoled him into taking a step he didn’t necessarily want to take.”  Greg glanced up and met Dimmock’s shocked face.  “No, no, nothing physical.  More emotional, I guess.  Anyway, I can’t be sure that he’d actually  _ tell _ me if he was unhappy so we could try to work through it or if he’d just close himself off.”

“And I suppose just asking him is completely out of the question?”  Dimmock needled gently as they turned away from the bar, drinks in hand.

“That’s a fair point,” Greg acknowledged.  “It’s just...well...being confronted with your own shortcomings is a bit shit, you know?”

“Well, yes,” Dimmock nodded sagely.  “But hiding from them and losing something this important’d probably be worse.”

“D’you know how much I hate when you’re right?” Greg demanded petulantly.

“I ought to,” he teased, “You remind me often enough.”  He took a sip of his lager, “Look, why don’t you send him a silly selfie, tell him you want to chat, and then just be a man and own your shit.”

Greg slanted him a disbelieving look.  “Why a selfie?”

Paul rolled his eyes.  “So he knows 'we need to talk' isn’t a ‘we need to talk about how I’m breaking up with you’ kind of thing.  Trust me, tone gets lost in text really easily, so a little reassurance goes a long way.”

Greg slid into the end of the booth and took his phone out of his pocket, but instead of snapping the picture, he just held it in his hands.  He rubbed his thumb across the screen, smearing his fingerprints into a smooth arc.  He wished there was as easy a way to erase his conversation with Sherlock from the other day.  He shouldn’t have pushed Sherlock for something he hadn’t wanted to give.

“Hey,” Paul’s quiet voice broke into Greg’s tailspinning thoughts.  “You want me to take the picture for you?”

“I...uh...yeah.  Would you?”  Greg smiled and passed his phone over.  “I think I’m overthinking this.”

“Easy to do,” Paul replied with a wink.  “Come on, give us a smile, then.”

Greg grinned into the camera, and Paul snapped a handful of photos.  “There,” he said, passing Greg’s phone back, “Your hair looks a sight, but it’ll do.”

“Thanks,” Greg selected the best of the pictures and called up his text window:

_ I owe you an apology and an explanation.  Call me when you get a bit of time. _

 

**~~oOo~~**

 

The slam of the street door jerked John away from the half finished blog post he’d been poking away at for the better part of the afternoon, and in a panic, he snapped his laptop shut.  After a moment’s hesitation, he reopened it and swore at himself for requiring a password after hibernation.  

Sherlock stopped to call in to Mrs. Hudson about the outcome of the game, and John breathed a sigh of relief at the moment’s reprieve.  Once his desktop finally reloaded, he quickly closed out of everything except his browser window.  Sherlock didn’t need to know he’d been trying to sort out his phone’s problem all on his own. 

A few moments later, Sherlock appeared in the doorway, tugging off his gloves and stuffing them into his coat pockets.  “Did you still want me to look at your phone?”

“What?” John asked in a lame attempt at stalling.

“Your phone,” Sherlock repeated.  He picked up John’s mobile off the desk and started tapping and swiping through the menus.  He glanced up and met John’s eye, “You said there’s something wrong with it.”

“Oh...I...yeah,” John answered, aiming for casual.  The wrinkle that formed between Sherlock’s eyebrows told him he’d missed by a mile.  “Actually, I think I’ve got it sorted.”  He waved a hand somewhat vaguely between his laptop and the mobile Sherlock still held.  “Restarted the phone and the computer and they both seem good as new.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose as he passed John’s phone back.  “Alright.  I don’t mind helping, you know.”

“No, no, I know,” John stammered.  He stared down at his hands fiddling with the phone for a moment then sighed and jammed it in his pocket.  When he looked up, he’d fixed his most innocuous smile in place.  “How was the game?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Running, shouting, poorly aimed kicking.  The standard for weekend park play, I imagine.”

John chuckled.  “I can imagine.  But I thought Greg’s team was supposed to be good?”

“They outperformed the other team, so yes, in this isolated instance one could classify them as ‘good,’” Sherlock answered.  “Lestrade did score the deciding goal,” he added with a touch of pride.

John had to literally bite down on his tongue to keep his opinion on the post game pictures that had appeared on his iCloud to himself.  “Sounds like a good time, then,” John said as Sherlock turned towards the kitchen to check the progress of whatever he had running.  

“I suppose,” Sherlock replied indifferently from where he was taking samples from a rather rank crop of fungi that he’d been growing in their best baking dish for the better part of two weeks.  “It’s just…” he trailed away in favour of pulling his phone from his pocket.  He scowled down at the screen and started typing frenetically in response to whatever he’d just read.

“Everything okay?” John asked.

“Mmm...fine,” Sherlock muttered distractedly.  “I need to call Lestrade.”

“He have a case for you?” John pressed, desperate to get Sherlock away from the caveman answers.

“Not at the moment.”  Sherlock turned towards his bedroom.  “Dinner later if nothing more interesting comes up?”

“I...sure.”  John agreed, thrown by the sudden change of subject.

“Thai at seven it is then,” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder just before he slammed his bedroom door shut between them.  Moments later, the sound of some sort of club music started coming faintly through Sherlock’s door.

John waited a full minute before he grabbed his laptop off the desk in the lounge and slipped upstairs to his own room.  In the sanctuary of his room behind his own closed door, he fished his phone out of his pocket and pulled up his contacts list.  Only one person could really help with a situation like this.

“What the hell?” John muttered, scrolling through the names and numbers on his phone.  “Bill, where are you?”  

He scrolled back up the list, stopping when he came to Sally Donovan and Paul Dimmock.  “How’d I end up with these, then?”  A closer look at the names and numbers populating the contact list on John’s phone finally allowed the relationship between his seemingly malfunctioning computer backups for his new mobile and the sudden burst of insight into Sherlock and Greg’s desire for a relationship with him to click.

“This isn’t my phone,” he breathed, staring down at the mobile in his hand.  

The reason for his computer backing up Greg’s phone suddenly made complete sense, but then, it also raised a whole snarl of other issues.  John set the mobile down on the bed next to him with a sigh.  He hadn’t told Sherlock his computer was backing up Greg’s phone because at first he hadn’t had known the whole situation, but now, now he didn’t even know how to bring it up.  What if Sherlock and Greg felt like he’d been influenced or pressured because of what he’d seen.  What if, god forbid, they thought he’d been taking advantage of having access to Greg’s phone, trying to manipulate them.

“What the hell am I going to do?” he muttered into the silence.

Rationalising that the best decision was one made with all the information available, John pulled up the photo program on his laptop and finally allowed himself to flip through all of the pictures his computer had pulled from Greg’s phone.  Laughter, a pair of intertwined hands, a beautiful tie, a rakish smile, and even a few stolen kisses.  John sighed.  These were some devastating pictures, that was for sure.  

John finally tore himself away from ogling the photos in favour of pulling up his contact list on his computer, which thankfully hadn’t synced and left him with only Greg’s numbers, and dialed a number off his computer screen, solidly refusing to examine why he wasn’t just texting like he normally would.  

The call connected midway through the third ring, and a woman’s voice came over the line.  “Hello, this is Bill Murray’s phone.”

“Um, hello, this is John Watson” John identified himself.  “I was hoping to get hold of Bill Murray.  Is he about?”

“Yeah, he’s just washing up.  Won’t be a tick,” the woman at the other end replied.  Bill shouted indistinctly in the background, and the woman pulled the phone away far enough to shout back “It’s John Watson” without deafening John in the process.  As he waited, he could hear Bill hollering back that it shouldn’t take fourteen goddamn comments on a person’s blog to get them to call once in a damn while.

“John H. Watson,” Bill greeted him a few moments later.  “How’d I get so lucky?”

John chuckled.  “Trying to reach out to all the blog’s fans individually.  Make you feel special.  Keep you interested.”

“I’m touched, doc, truly.  The fact that you’re writing again gives me something to read with Ashley and Nate in the evenings.”

“Oh, Christ not out loud, I hope,” John protested with a laugh.  “I don’t think I’ve written a coherent update since the one about the Mayfly Man.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, there’s been a couple hidden gems in the newer stuff,” Bill replied.  “I quite liked the one about the snakes in the ductwork.”

“That was a good one,” John agreed.  “You’re right, I should really get back into it, but I’m just…” John trailed off with a sigh.

“So why’re you ringing me up in the middle of a Saturday afternoon?” Bill asked into the silence on John’s end.  “Trouble with that detective of yours?”

“Not trouble, exactly,” John hedged, suddenly nervous.  “It’s more...well…There’s this DI we work with sometimes, and he and Sherlock are...and Greg’s mentioned, well asked really, and...Jesus Christ this is awkward.”

Bill’s soft laughter stopped John’s stumbling explanation.  “Is this a friends with benefits situation, John?”

“No,” John answered.  “I almost think it would be easier if it was, to be honest.”

“Oh?  And why’s that?” Bill asked, a note of challenge in his voice.

“Less...less of a commitment up front, I guess,” John admitted.  “A chance to see if it’s really something before I let myself go all in.”

“Keep them at arm’s length so you can’t be the one who gets hurt, is that it?” Bill pressed.

“That’s a bit harsh,” John protested sharply.  “It’s...I’m…”

“This is Kandahar all over again, isn’t it, John?” Bill pointed out, putting a stop to John’s fumbling. 

“Shit, d’you think?”

“Of course.  You really love both of them, don’t you?  Your detective and his DI?” Bill asked.  

John nodded as he picked at a loose thread in the duvet.  “I...yeah...I do.”

“And they love you?” Bill prodded.

“I know Greg does,” John replied.  “With Sherlock, who can tell, really?”

“If the things you talk about on your blog are any indication, then you cannot possibly be thick enough to not know how he feels about you,” Bill chided, not unkindly.

John sighed.  “I know, but it’s…” he shrugged, unsure how to finish.

“Scary?  A risk?  A bit of effort?”

“Try all of the above,” John answered.

Bill groaned.  “John, you giant berk.  What new relationship isn’t?”

“Yes, but I can’t even make a go of a relationship with one person.  How could I possibly do that to two people,” John protested.

Bill laughed.  “Has it ever occurred to you that you haven’t really been able to make a go of it with anyone because they weren’t the right someone?”

“Yes, but two people, Billy,” John protested.  “It’s just so…”

“What?” Bill asked, daring John to finish his sentence.

“...Unusual,” John finished.

Bill sighed patiently on the other end of the line.  “Well, yes, but you’ve tried that one on me before.  And I’m sure you remember what I told you back then too.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” John agreed.  “I just worry, you know.  That people would find out.  That someone would say something.  It’s all just--”

“Look, John, it’s simple,” Bill cut in.  “If you really feel about them the way you say you do, then it’s worth the risk.  All that other shit takes care of itself.”

John nodded.  “You’re right.  Of course you’re right.”

Bill’s voice softened when he spoke again.  “Simple doesn’t mean easy, and I get that too, you know.  I have to believe your copper wouldn’t have said something to you if he didn’t think you’d be able to handle it.  All of you.”

“How can you know them so well, and you’ve never even met them?”  John asked, laughing incredulously.

“John.  You forget.  You hold up such an accurate mirror to everyone else, but you don’t ever bother to look at yourself.”

John sighed and unclenched his hand where he’d gripped it against his thigh.  “I...maybe I should talk to them.  Give us a chance to show each other how we feel.”

“That’s the spirit,” Bill said encouragingly.  “Remember, anything worth having’s a risk, but it’s easier to take the leap when you know someone’s there to catch you.”

“Two someones, in this case,” John agreed.  

Bill laughed.  “Exactly.  You know, if you ever get a break from chasing down criminals, Friday night’s my pub night.  I know Nate would love to see you again too instead of just having to hear about your exciting life second hand from the blog.”

“Thanks, Bill.  I’ll remember that,” John answered.  “I’ll call you next week for pints?”

“You better,” Bill threatened.  “I want to hear all about how this works out.”

John laughed as they said their goodbyes, but once Bill had rung off, John tossed his phone down on the bed with a sigh.  He picked it up again a moment later, knowing Bill was right.  He needed to do the decent thing by Sherlock and Greg and tell them how he felt.  The good and the bad.  Before he could lose his nerve, he opened a new text, but the sender field brought him up short. 

“How the fuck am I meant to do this?” John muttered to himself.  A text seemed easier, but it also seemed so impersonal.  He briefly considered phoning, but then of course the threat of Greg not actually answering always reared its ugly head.

“I can’t bloody well leave him a voicemail about this,” John complained, backing out of the call window.  “Oh, hey mate, it’s John.  Nothing’s really new, except that I’ve finally accepted that fancying two men isn’t quite the end of the world I thought it was.  No need to call me back.  Cheers.”

He flopped back on the bed, trying to come up with an actual plan.  He couldn’t very well hide out in his bedroom all afternoon; Sherlock would know something was up.  He also couldn’t go round to Greg’s either; Sherlock would deduce what he was up to the second he went down for his coat.

A sudden flash of inspiration set him scrabbling for his phone.  A text might be an impersonal way to discuss something as serious as this, but it could lead to an actual conversation.  He popped open a new text window and tapped out a quick message, hating himself just a bit when he turned on the read receipts for the conversation.  

 

**~~oOo~~**

 

When Greg got back to his flat, he deliberately stuck his phone in a desk drawer and went straight from there to the shower.  He’d caught himself checking for a reply to his request for a chat every couple of minutes, and had finally figured that torturing himself wouldn’t actually help anything, so he might as well distract himself by getting cleaned up.  Fresh from the shower, he threw his kit in the washer and put the kettle on before he allowed himself to venture back into the sitting room to retrieve his phone.  Two texts were waiting on his lock screen.

_ Greg, it’s John.  Could I call you later? _

_ I’ll be free in half an hour.  I’ll call you then.  SH. _

The message from Sherlock was nearly twenty minutes old, so Greg dashed off a quick acknowledgement to Sherlock letting him know he’d be around to talk.  He stared at the message from John until his screen went dark, then he turned it back on and reread it one more time before he started typing a reply.   

_ Sure.  Is six okay? _

“Christ, what a mess,” he muttered to himself as he tapped send then threw his phone down on the desk with a groan.  Trying to sort these two out felt exactly like scheduling phone interviews.

With a few minutes still until Sherlock called, Greg flipped open the lid to his laptop and fired up his iCloud to make sure his backups had started again with his new mobile.  Once the sync finished, a few seconds of scrolling was enough to tell Greg something was seriously wrong.  He picked up his phone and dialed Sherlock’s number.  Sherlock picked up on the second ring.

“Yes?”

Greg rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s terse greeting.  “Nice to hear you’re in a good mood.”  

Sherlock huffed a breath of laughter into the phone.

“You busy, sunshine?” Greg could hear the steady beat of what sounded like trance music in the background.

“Not particularly,” Sherlock answered.  “Investigating the effectiveness of repetitive music as a sound barrier.  What did you need?”

“You know how I told you I thought something was wrong with my phone?” Greg prompted, and Sherlock hummed his affirmative.  “Well, I’m sure.  The backup on my computer isn’t even close to what’s actually on my mobile.”

“How not?” Greg could practically see Sherlock’s senses sharpening at the prospect of a puzzle.

“I...it...I’m not sure, to be honest,” Greg said.  “It’s almost like my computer is backing up someone else’s mobile.”

“Is that possible?” Sherlock wondered.  

Greg shrugged.  “I suppose it could be if I had someone else’s iCloud account on my computer.”

“But you don’t think that’s it.”  Sherlock wasn’t asking.

“I don’t know,” Greg repeated.  “It’s bizarre.  And on top of this, I told you already that all my contacts were messed up.  I think I need to take this back into O2 and have them look at it.”

“Oh don’t do that,” Sherlock protested.  “They’re nothing more than spotty teenagers who barely know a mobile phone from a calculator.  Do you want me to come over and have a look?”

“D’you mind?” Greg sounded relieved.  

“I’ll leave in the next ten minutes,” Sherlock promised.

“Thanks,” Greg said.  “I’ll see you in a bit.”  

Greg opened the door to Sherlock’s knock a half hour later, and Sherlock swanned through the door tugging off his gloves then holding his hand out for Greg’s mobile.

“Thanks for this,” Greg greeted him.

“It’s no trouble,” Sherlock answered, “although why you think I’d know any better than you what’s going on is beyond me.”

Greg shrugged and passed his mobile over.  “You might.  I think you had that old Blackberry of yours before I even knew what a smartphone was.”

Sherlock started poking at the screen as he replied, “Length of time using a device by no means conveys familiarity.”  He glanced up.  “You only need look at John’s henpeck typing to see the truth of that.”

Greg saw his opening.  “Speaking of John,” he began, but Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “No, no, don’t be that way.  I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Sherlock repeated, “for what?”

“Just…”  Greg waved a hand helplessly.  “About talking to him.  About our feelings for him.  The whole thing.  I think I rushed into it and just dragged you along with me.  So, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock stopped tapping at Greg’s mobile screen and looked up to meet his eyes.  “Don’t apologize for that.  Not now.  Not ever.  You’ve done something that I would never have the courage to attempt.”  He looked back down at Greg’s screen.  “I’m...I think all those vehement repetitions of ‘not gay’ have hardened me to taking emotional risks with him.”

Greg leaned in and slipped an arm around Sherlock’s waist while he continued to fiddle with the mobile.  “I didn’t think of that.”  He gave Sherlock a gentle squeeze when the frown he’d been directing down at the screen darkened into a scowl.  “Any luck?”

“I think I know what’s going on,” Sherlock replied, glancing up again.  “But you’re not going to like it.”

A knock at Greg’s door stopped Sherlock from continuing.

“Were you expecting someone?” Sherlock asked, glaring at Greg.

“No one but you,” he answered.

A second knock, firmer than the last sounded between them.

“Are you going to get that?” Sherlock prompted.

“I suppose so,” Greg conceded.  He raised his voice to call to his new visitor, “Coming.”

Greg pulled the door open to reveal John Watson standing on his front mat.  “John,” he said, surprised.  “What are you doing here?”

“Oh...I...um,” John stammered, then fell silent when he glanced past Greg to where Sherlock was standing in the middle of the sitting room.  “I can come back if you’re busy,” he offered, clearly not wanting to intrude.

“No, no,” Greg held the door open wider so John could slip past.  “Come in.”  He gestured to the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

John nodded and perched himself in the middle of the sofa, his hands clenched tightly in his lap.  Greg settled easily on the seat next to him, but Sherlock wandered over to the desk and started fiddling with a foldback clip that had been left out, watching his fingers as they flipped the handles forward and back.  

John watched Greg watch Sherlock for a few moments then cleared his throat.  Greg jumped a bit and turned to face John.  “I, um, I just came over to show you, both of you, something.”

Greg’s expression turned questioning.  “Okay.  What is it?”

John tapped at his phone for a few seconds then passed it to Greg.  “This.”

“How...how did you get this?” Greg asked, looking up from the snapshot he’d taken of himself and Sherlock after his game that morning.  He looked completely smitten kissing Sherlock and Sherlock looked so settled and happy.  

Sherlock came to sit on John’s other side and he grabbed Greg’s wrist to tilt the phone so he could see.  He frowned at the photo then over at Greg.  “You took this on your phone.”

“I wasn’t sure at first,” John admitted, “but then I started to notice a bit of a trend.”  He reached over and started swiping back through the album.  More and more pictures: just Greg, Greg and Sherlock, and even the snapshot of the tie Sherlock had snuck into his closet scrolled past.  “Recognize any of these?” he asked.

“These are all mine.  How did you end up with my pictures?” Greg repeated.

John took the phone back and set it down on the coffee table.  “It took me a while, but I finally worked it out.  My computer’s backing up your phone.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Greg insisted.  “My phone should back up to my computer.”

“That really only works if you’re backing up  _ your _ phone,” Sherlock interjected.

John smiled at him.  “Exactly.  I haven’t quite figured out when the switch happened, but--”

“When you saw me kissing Lestrade, and he panicked and fled,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.  

“Oi, I did not panic,” Greg defended himself.

John chuckled.  “You kind of did, mate.”

Greg shoved him playfully in the shoulder.  “As if you didn’t.”

“Yes, but I didn’t run out of the flat like my hair was on fire,” John retorted.

“Yes, yes, do please get to the point,” Sherlock snapped.

Greg met John’s eye with a smirk.  “The point,” Greg said, “is that he’s been spying on us for nearly two weeks now, haven’t you?”

John blushed and nodded.  “Yeah.”

“It’s more than that, though,” Sherlock said, eyeing John up and down.

“Sherlock,” Greg warned.

John waved him off.  “It’s fine.  Well, it wasn’t at first.  But after you came round earlier this week to talk about...um…”

“Polyamory,” Sherlock supplied.   


“Yeah, that,” John agreed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s avoidance of the term, but Greg pinched him to keep him quiet.

“It’s all still a bit new,” John said.  “I’ll get used to it.  Anyway, after Greg came round to talk to me about polyamory and that you both apparently love me, I did some thinking.”  John took a deep breath to gather his courage.  “I’ve...You’re...this isn’t the first time I’ve been offered this kind of thing,” he blurted.

Greg glanced at Sherlock, who looked just as gobsmacked as he felt.  

John, isolated in reliving the struggles of his youth and the difficulty of his conversation with Bill earlier in the afternoon, didn’t notice.  “Anyway,” he continued, “one of the nurses I tended to end up on rota with in Kandahar and I fell into a bit of a thing.  It wasn’t serious.  At least, not at first, but there was an infantryman in our unit, Nate, and I just couldn’t get him out of my head.”  He chuckled.  “Turned out, neither could Bill.  He took a liking to both of us, and Bill was more than game, but I was...terrified.”

Greg reached out and rested his hand gently on John’s shoulder and Sherlock, he noticed, had been inching closer until he was sitting right up against John, a steady presence against his side.  

“It’s just...it’s not something you do,” John said, his tone begging them to understand.

“It’s not common,” Sherlock murmured in agreement.

“But it’s still love,” Greg promised.

John nodded.  “Yeah, yeah it is.”  He looked up and met first Greg’s gaze and then Sherlock’s.  “You know, I called Bill today.  He and Nate are still together, and they’ve got a girlfriend.  Ashley.  He reminded me that when you get offered everything you want, only a fool ignores it.”

Greg took a deep breath.  “Are we everything you want?”

John set the mobile he’d been using for two weeks down on the coffee table and ran his hands down the thighs of his denims.  They were, Sherlock noted, perfectly steady.  He nodded.  “Yeah.  You are.”  He glanced from Greg to Sherlock.  “You both are.”

Greg grinned and pulled John into a fierce one-armed hug.  “I’m glad; takes a lot of courage to step out on a new relationship.”

John hugged him back, just as fiercely.  “I’m so glad you had the courage to say something and got me off my arse.”

Sherlock reached out and laid his hand gently on John’s arm.  “I must say, it is quite nice to have one’s deductions confirmed.”

John laughed and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist so he could reel him into an embrace with his other arm.  “I suppose we should actually get these phones switched back.” John mused, still grinning at the string of coincidences that had brought them here.

Greg extricated himself from John’s hold and picked up the mobile John had left on the coffee table.  “So is this one mine, then?”

“Yeah,” John confirmed.  “None of my mates are in there, and I don’t think I’ve ever had Sally’s number in my life.”

“Right.  Be right back.”  Greg stood and disappeared into his bedroom.  He reappeared a few moments later, John’s phone in his hand.  “I ran the battery down a bit after the game, but here you go.”  At the last moment, however, Greg hesitated.  “Could I take just one more picture on this one?”

John’s smile grew into a face-splitting grin.  “Only if we’re all in it together.”

Greg plopped back down onto the sofa next to John and wrapped his arm back around John.  “I think I can manage that.”  He wiggled his fingers against Sherlock’s arm.  “Come on, sunshine, act like you like us.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he leaned in and wrapped his arm around John’s waist.  Greg smirked down at the screen as he felt the gentle tug of Sherlock’s fingers winding into his belt loop.  “Alright, then,” he said, holding the phone up so they could all see themselves in the selfie camera.  “One for our backgrounds.”

A couple clicks of the camera later, and Greg handed John his phone back, the home screen already displaying the picture of the three of them.  “I know it’s a bit early for dinner, and Sherlock had mentioned takeaway, but what if we went out?  The three of us?”  John suggested.

“Like a date?” Greg asked.

Sherlock pinched Greg’s side.  “Of course like a date.  Cementing the emotional bond.  Building trust and intimacy through physical proximity.”

John laughed.  “Exactly.”  He stood and held out a hand each to Sherlock and Greg.  “So?  Date?”

They both took his hands and rose to join him.  “I know a fabulous little bistro a few streets over,” Sherlock offered, drawing on his coat.

“Does the owner owe you a favour?” Greg asked as they headed down onto the street.

“Mmm, not this one,” Sherlock admitted, “But it does have a lovely intimate atmosphere.  Perfect for three people who like each other to go out and have fun.”

They piled into the cab Sherlock hailed, and as it pulled into traffic, John reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile.  He let Sherlock and Greg’s good natured bickering wash over him and just stared at picture of the three of them together on Greg’s couch smiling up at him from his lock screen: Sherlock’s rare genuine smile, Greg’s delightfully self-satisfied smirk, and his own bemusedly happy grin.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting.


End file.
